Killer Move: A Novel

By Michael Marshall

Stephen King hailed Michael Marshall's novel Straw Men as “a masterpiece . . . brilliantly written and scary as hell.” Now, Marshall returns with this latest unnerving tale—a creepy, fast-paced thriller that grips you from the first page straight through to its shocking end.

Bill Moore already has a lot, but he wants more . . . much more.

He's got a lucrative job selling condos in the Florida Keys, a successful wife, a good marriage, a beautiful house. He also has a five-year plan for supersuccess, but that plan has begun to drag into its sixth year without reaping its intended rewards. So now Bill's starting to mix it up—just a little—to accelerate his way into the future that he knows he deserves.

Then one morning Bill arrives at work to find a card waiting for him, with no indication who it's from or why it was sent. Its message is just one word: modified.

From that moment on, Bill's life begins to change.

At first, nothing seems very different. But when things begin to unwind rapidly, and one after another, people around Bill start to die, it becomes increasingly clear that someone somewhere has a very different plan for Bill's future. Confused and angry, Bill begins to fight against this unseen force until he comes to a terrifying, inescapable realization: Once modified, there's no going back.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Jun 28, 2011
• ISBN: 9780062079329

Michael Marshall

Michael Marshall is a full-time writer. His novels include ‘The Straw Men’, ‘The Lonely Dead’ and ‘Blood of Angels’, and he also writes short stories and screenplays. Two of his earlier novels written under the name of Michael Marshall Smith, ‘Spares’ and ‘One of Us’, have been optioned by major Hollywood studios. He lives in North London with his wife and their son and two cats.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

He stands in a corridor. He has been there for nearly an hour. For many this would feel like the final imposition, the last straw, the bitter end: something to ignite crimson threads of anger in the brain and provoke a tumble backward into the pit of clotted fury that consigned them here in the first place. It does not have this effect on John Hunter, however, and this is not just because he has always possessed certain reserves of calm, or even because this period is but the stubby tail of a far longer period of waiting. He has simply become aware, over the years, that all experience is more or less equal. So he waits.

The corridor is painted in rancid cream, a color that is presumably supposed to be calming. He will remember this place by it, along with the tang of rust and the orchestral complexity of a thousand mingled strains of male sweat. He has been offered a seat. He declines, deferentially, but without playing the fake submissive: a balanced performance he’s had plenty of time to perfect. Waiting in a seated or standing position amounts to the same job, and so he stands.

His mind is a perfect blank.

Eventually a door opens, and a bluff, plump man wearing a crumpled blue suit steps out into the corridor.

Sorry for the wait, John, he says. He looks harassed, but in command.

Inside the office are bookshelves crammed with case files and texts on criminology and penal theory. There is a window that affords a view over the main prison yard. The man with his name on the door has occupied this space for seven years. During this time, it is said, he has made significant improvements to conditions within the facility and has published four highly regarded papers presenting carefully quantified analysis of the results. He has also lost much of his hair, revealing a pate sprinkled with sizable moles.

He sits himself behind the wide wooden desk. Minor crisis on D, he mutters. Now averted, or at least postponed until the gods of chaos pay another visit. Which they will. Please—have a seat.

Hunter does so, taking one of the two large plush chairs angled to face the warden’s desk. He has been in this office before. The desk as usual holds a laptop, a half-used legal pad, two pens, a mobile phone in a leather belt-clip, and a photograph of a woman and three children so strikingly anonymous that it seems possible the official bought the picture preframed from a prop shop, as set dressing, in order to present himself exactly as he is expected to be. Perhaps, in reality, and outside these walls, he is roguishly single, spending the small hours of the night cruising S and M bars. It is equally possible that the warden is simply what he appears to be. Sometimes, remarkably, that is so.

He folds his hands together over his stomach and looks cheerfully across at the man sitting bolt upright in one of his chairs. So. Feeling good?

Very good, sir.

Not surprised. Been a long time.

The man nods. He is privately of the opinion that only someone who has been incarcerated for sixteen years can have any understanding of how long a period that represents, but is aware this is not a fruitful direction for the discussion to take. During the course of preparing for three unsuccessful parole hearings, he has learned a good deal about fruitful discussion.

Any questions? Any particular fears?

No sir. Not that I’m aware of. The counseling sessions have been real helpful.

I’m glad to hear it. Now, I know you do, but I’ve got to ask. You understand, and will fulfill, the conditions of your release and parole, blah blah blah?

Yes sir.

Don’t want to see you back here, right?

With respect, sir, the feeling is mutual.

The warden laughs. In a way, he is sorry to see this prisoner leave. He is not the only malleable man among a population dominated by feral recidivists and borderline psychopaths, but he is intelligent and reasonable and has—most important—responded well to the program of rehabilitation that the warden has accentuated during his tenure; which is why the prisoner is sitting here now rather than being kicked unceremoniously back into the world like the rest of today’s lucky few. Hunter has expressed contrition for his crime—the murder of a twenty-eight-year-old woman—and exhibited a sustained understanding both of the conditions and circumstances that led to the event, and ways to avoid such triggers in the future. He has said he’s sorry and shown genuine awareness of what he is apologizing for. Nine years is an unusually long time to have lopped off a sentence, especially for a murder crime, and the warden feels proud on the man’s behalf.

Meanwhile, the man sits in front of him. Polite, silent, immobile as a rock.

Anything else you want to discuss?

No sir. Except, well, just to say thank you.

The warden stands, and the soon-to-be-ex–prisoner follows suit. A pleasure. I just wish everyone in here could look forward to this kind of ending.

People get the endings they deserve, sir, maybe.

The warden knows this isn’t even remotely true, but he reaches out and the two men shake. The warden’s hand is warm, a little damp. The other man’s is dry and cool.

The prisoner is escorted along a series of corridors. Some are the pathways that have circumscribed his universe for the best part of two decades, routes between mess hall and workshop and yard that echo with the shouts and cage rattling of men—thieves and killers, parole violators and pedophiles, carjackers and gangbangers anywhere from eighteen to seventy-one years in age—whose names and natures and varying degrees of moral deviance he has already started, with relief, to forget. A few call out as he passes. He ignores them. They’re ghosts, deep in the caves. They cannot hurt him now.

Subsequent corridors are foothills of the route out, the freedom side of iron gates and multiple locks. As these start to predominate, the man experiences moments in which it is difficult to maintain a flatness of emotion that has been hard-won. To walk these halls is to feel as if you are making unexpected headway in the endless maze in which you have spent a third of your life; to sense you may finally be escaping the madness that had colonized every corner of your mind—except for the tiny, central kernel in which a soul has crouched, interred in time, for a period long enough to hold four Olympic games.

In Holding & Release Hunter signs papers under the supervision of correctional officers who treat him differently now, but not so very differently. To them, as to the world outside, this period of time will never quite be over. Once a criminal, always so—especially when your crime was murder. Murder says you are not like the rest of us, or so it comforts us to pretend.

A clear plastic packet of possessions is returned to him. A watch, a wallet holding seventy dollars and change, other trinkets of a former life. He is shown to a wire cage room where he changes back into the clothes in which he entered the prison, in view of officers and the other men who are being released. He is used to his every move taking place in front of other men, but he is looking forward very much to the moment when this ceases to be so. The clothes still fit. A pair of jeans, a long-sleeved black T-shirt, and a battered denim jacket. An outfit that is effectively timeless.

An officer escorts him down a set of stairs and into an open courtyard adjacent to the yard where he has taken his four hours of outside time per week. They walk across this space to a gate. The gate is unlocked for him.

He walks through it.

The world.

A cab is waiting forty yards down the road. The other prisoners released today will be ferried away in the back of a van. This man wanted real life to start right at the gate, however. He walks straight over to the car and gets in without looking back.

Where to? the driver asks.

Hunter names a nearby town. He rests back in the seat and stares through the windshield as the driver starts the car and begins the journey away from this place. He appears in no hurry to converse, and neither does he turn the radio on. For both of these facts, his passenger is grateful—though he has no need to mentally rehearse what he is going to do next, or the broad strokes of how this first day is going to be spent. He has done that already, and so it’s done. Hunter knows how important it is to keep his concerns and aspirations driving forward, leaving every yesterday behind. The past is the past, and inviolable as such. The only thing it can do in the present is drag you back.

Almost nothing that happened within the high walls now receding in the rearview mirror will be allowed to escape: the beatings; the early nights of abject horror; the two attempts, in the first month, to kill himself; later, the decisions over who to program with and how much or little to get involved in the prison’s interior worlds in order to avoid being either called upon to do other people’s time or winding up on some gang’s Bad News list—an effective death sentence of infinite jurisdiction. That was then, and in there.

This is now. Out here.

The single thing he has brought with him, the knowledge that has sustained him throughout the years but that also cast shadows over his darkest nights and hours, is this: that he was innocent of the crime for which he was convicted. Ninety percent of men in prison make this claim, and pretty much all of them are lying.

This man, however, was not.

He didn’t do it.

There are details still to be worked out—what to eat first, where to pick up some clothes that don’t stink of confinement, where to stay the first night. The main business, however, is already laid out in his mind.

He is going to get hold of a gun.

And then he’s going to start using it.

PART I

IMPERFECT CONTINUOUS

Every day, in every way,

I’m getting better and better.

—ÉMILE COUÉ

CHAPTER ONE

As I pulled around The Breakers’ inner circle I saw that Karren White’s car was already tucked into the better of the two Shore Realty slots—the one that gets shade in the afternoon and stops your vehicle from feeling like an oven turned to BURN when you climb into it at the end of the working day. She had parked with characteristic accuracy, the sides of her sporty little BMW exactly parallel to the lines, as if she’d put the car in position first and then sweet-talked Big Walter the handyman into painting the parking space around her (which, knowing her charm and forcefulness, was not entirely out of the question). I parked my own vehicle in the remaining space, with not dissimilar skill, and glanced at the clock in the dashboard. Eight twelve.

Hmm.

I logged the time in a utility on my iPhone. I’m not OCD about these things, you should know. The point of logging is merely to develop positive habits, reproducible patterns of behavior that can later be reallocated to tasks of greater importance. The point also was that Karren was at work before me on the third straight Monday, and doubtless thought this proved something, or might yield competitive advantage in the long run. She could not know that I’d already taken a working breakfast up at St. Armands Circle, coffee and French toast and twenty-five minutes of light banter with someone who might, eventually, make me a lot of money. She would also not be aware that on the way over from my home in Sarasota I’d caught up on the weekend’s brand-building and entrepreneurship podcasts (spooled from the Web onto the iPhone, and thence to my car’s meaty sound system), sent five e-mails (drafted before I left the house, edited, and then dispatched while waiting at traffic lights), and updated the status on my LinkedIn, Facebook, and HollaBack pages. The early bird gets the worm, true, but Bill Moore doesn’t mind dining second if the specimen of the phylum Annelida he snares is bigger and juicier as a result.

So, Ms. White, gather the better parking spot while ye may. We’ll see who grows fat in the end.

I braced myself before getting out of the air-conditioned comfort of the Lexus, but the heat still came on like a middle-aged banker bracing a cocktail waitress. Six years in Florida hadn’t yet accustomed me to the way humidity makes the place its bitch, already in position with insidious weight and heft before humans have even hauled themselves out of bed. As I locked the car I glanced at the sky above the sturdy two-story condo blocks all around me and was reassured to see clouds gathering inland. Sooner or later—maybe this afternoon, please God—a storm was going to break, and after that it would become more bearable for at least a day or two.

I strode over to Shore Realty’s little hut, noting that the picture of a recently listed two-bedroom condo had finally made it into the window. It was crooked. Once inside the cool and air-con-dry building, I righted this state of affairs, before turning to the office.

Morning, I said, a little louder than necessary—with an air of distraction, too, to make it clear I was not actually starting my working day but already well into my stride.

My voice bounced off the rear wall and came back to me without much to report. Shore Realty’s lair in The Breakers is neither large nor bijou. It’s the smallest outpost of a chain that has more impressive accommodation at the Ocean View Mall halfway up the key, plus additional locations in Sarasota, Bradenton, and Tampa. The bulk of my office’s business comes from reselling units within The Breakers itself—though this was something I had been trying to change.

The working area is a rectangle perhaps eight yards by six (I’ve never actually measured it), with space for three desks: mine, Karren’s—at which she sat, clattering away at her keyboard—and one for Janine, the assistant who spends her days performing support tasks like confirming meetings, misunderstanding basic computer functions, and putting properties in the window, never quite straight. Janine was nowhere to be seen, business as usual for this time of day (and other times, too).

Back atcha, Billy-boy.

Karren was sporting her standard getup—smart white blouse and a snug-fitting blue skirt that stopped above the knee, the better to showcase her tennis court–honed calves. Back in the day she’d been a force on the courts, by all accounts, had even considered turning pro. From what I’d seen—we’re afforded complimentary use of the resort’s facilities—she remained sharp at twenty-nine. Like, whatever. I play just enough tennis to hold my own when business demands and to lark around with my wife when she’s in the mood. Winning at sports is not the same as winning in business, just like The Art of War is not a corporate how-to manual. You run that beat-up 1980s routine on me and I’m going to stomp you into the ground.

And Janine is . . . ?

Doctor’s. Kid’s got the plague.

Again?

Karren shrugged theatrically, causing her long dark hair to pool up on her shoulders. Just about the only matter on which we absolutely agree is that Janine is basically useless, and her kid actually defective.

Says she’ll be here by one, cross her heart and hope to diet.

I’ll be out again by then. Got a meeting down on Siesta.

Karren went back to her keyboard and failed to rise to the bait. Point to her, probably, or maybe she simply hadn’t been listening.

When I got to my desk I saw something lying on it. This was easy to spot, as my working area is the tidiest in the Sarasota area, possibly even along the entire gulf side of Florida—though I’ve heard rumors of a guy up in Saint Pete who has nothing on his desk at all. Propped in the center of mine was a rectangular card, midway between business and postcard size.

I picked it up, flipped it over. Just one word on the other side: MODIFIED.

Hell is this?

What?

Thing on my desk.

No idea, Karren said without turning around. Came in the mail. Probably some viral marketing crap.

Viral marketing?

You know. Coming in under the radar. Keeping it on the down low. Advertising that’s cool and hip and engaging and just so New Edge it makes you want to spit.

I looked back down at the card in my hand. It was matte black on both sides, had just that one word in white letters and bold type across the front, and my name and the company’s address on a laser-printed sticker on the back. The sticker had been put on perfectly straight.

I’m not engaged, I said, and dropped the card in the trash.

CHAPTER TWO

I got through a slew of e-mail, made a few calls—Shore business only, anything else I do on my cell when away from prying ears—and left the office a little after eleven. The clouds were bunching overhead, purple thunderheads that promised an almighty downpour. The only downside was that the air had become even heavier in preparation, the earth offering up every drop of moisture from its hot lungs, anxious to have it purged in the upcoming hammer of rain. It felt like if you were to reach out and make a wringing motion, actual water would drip down out of the atmosphere to steam off the ground.

I hesitated, aware that this was precisely the kind of moment when I would formerly have lit a cigarette. I didn’t do that anymore, however, and this morning that felt like less of an imposition. It was taking hold, finally, Mr. Nicotine Addiction packing his bags. I paused to pay homage to the fact. The author of one of my favorite personal development blogs is big on taking the time to mark good moments rather than fretting about the bad—reprogramming reality through altering focus to the positive. Drive yourself and you drive the world. Plus, I was running a little early anyhow.

From where I was standing you get a good sense of what The Breakers is about. A condo complex built in the heady days when throwing up blocks on the Florida coast was basically a license to print money, the resort had everything a family needed to beguile a couple of weeks in the Sunshine State. A hundred and twenty apartments, in blocks of six; said two-story blocks arranged in a pair of concentric circles around a central area holding eight tennis courts. (The Breakers prides itself on its facilities, and hosts the annual Longboat Key Tournament.) Palms, fern beds, and path decking lightened the effect and gave the blocks a little personal space. Each had a cheerful name, was painted a different shade of pastel, and, to the discerning eye, was beginning to look a little tatty.

On the ocean side of the inner circle stands a four-story administrative building holding the resort offices and reception, meeting/conference spaces, a gym, and—arrayed over the entire top two stories—the gargantuan living space of the resort’s owners. The corresponding point on the outer circle is home to, in addition to the adjunct of Shore Realty’s office, a little grocery market, a place to buy beachwear, Marie’s Restaurant (small and poised, a pianist most evenings, nonresidents welcome, but shorts or flip-flops are not), and Tony’s Bistro (the more casual dining option, child friendly, with a tiki bar and tables on a patio overlooking the pool area).

Beyond that, the beach—on which there are several four-bedroom bungalows, the pinnacle of the resort’s rental cost ladder. Other buildings dotted around the complex hold a game room and an area where parents can dump their more tractable children under semiexpert supervision for two-hour sessions, the better to sun-worship in peace. There’s a repair division, too, domain of Big Walter the maintenance man, but I’ve seldom needed to tangle with that side of things (or with him). He’s a decent guy and a wiz at fixing things, but of large build and inclined to perspire freely.

My job was to take listings of condos of which owners had decided to divest themselves and sell them to someone else as quickly as possible. In many ways this was a sweet deal—a monopoly located right on-site—which is why I’d chosen to work there rather than at the mainland office over in Sarasota. The problem was that selling the properties was getting harder every year. Tony and Marie Thompson ran The Breakers with an iron fist, tight purse strings, and a management style that was beginning to betray its age as blatantly as the buildings were. All but three of the apartments were owned on a fractional basis, as is common practice. The owners were not allowed to do their own decorating, on the grounds that this led to regular guests developing favorites among the condominiums and demanding the freedom to choose, which would make it harder to allocate them with maximum income-generating efficiency. There’s nothing inherently wrong with the system except it had been a few years since the buildings had been given attention, and this was beginning to show both inside and out. Everything worked—bar the occasional blatting AC unit or a toilet that needed unblocking on too regular a basis; it just wasn’t looking what Karren insisted on calling supergreat and perfect.

This meant in turn that the condos weren’t getting the resale prices their location on the key warranted; thus I was neither making the commission I deserved for the hours and dedication I put in, nor shining in the community to the degree required to actualize my five-year plan (now already in its sixth year, which was bugging me no end) of being able to get the hell out of Shore Realty and set up my own shop, preferably in an office down on St. Armands Circle, candidates for which I had picked out some time ago. And this was why I had taken it upon myself to do what I was going to do next: meet with Tony Thompson to try to convince him to shake out a little cash to spruce up the place.

I went to my car, unlocked the trunk, and took out a shopping bag. Then I rolled my shoulders, muttered a couple of motivational phrases, and strode off in the direction of reception.

"This is quite a find, Bill."

I stood sipping a glass of iced tea, looking down out of the plateglass window toward the ocean, while Tony Thompson peered with satisfaction at the bottle of wine.

Heard you mention it a while back, I said. I happened to spot a source, snapped it up.

You got a good memory.

Stuck in my head, is all.

He looked at me suspiciously. Can’t have been easy to get hold of.

Not locally, I admitted, watching waves lapping at the concrete pier sticking out from the middle of The Breakers’ section of beach, and on which a lone, picturesque heron was often to be found standing, as if hired by the management. About a third of the Thompsons’ residence was taken up with a double height living area. From its vast windows you could see a couple of miles in either direction along one of the most unspoiled sections on this entire stretch of coast. When Longboat Key began to be developed in earnest during the early 1980s, there were already sufficient numbers of people singing the conservation song that a degree of tact and reserve held the day. This probably enraged the moneymen at the time, but in the long run there had been advantages. Were it not for a cluster of taller (and more recent) condos down at the south end, you would be able to see all the way to the wilderness at the end of Lido Key.

It was a great view. I wanted it.

So how’d you find this one?

The Internet is a marvelous resource.

Yeah, I hear good things, Thompson said, setting the bottle on the breakfast bar and leading me toward a sitting area with white sofas and a glass coffee table big enough to play Ping-Pong on, assuming you had really short legs. It was bare, aside from a fat book of Sudoku puzzles and an ornate wooden box. I got more than enough stuff to deal with in the real world. Don’t have time for all that doubya doubya doubya crap.

He took a cigarette from the box and indicated to me that I should do the same if I was so inclined. I shook my head, privately amazed that there were people who still possessed such objects. Back in Thompson’s youth—he was a hale and hearty sixty-eight, and famously took a five-mile run on the beach every morning—they’d doubtless been quite the thing, along with onyx table lighters and station wagons with faux wood–paneled sides. The decor of the rest of the apartment was Florida Beach Traditional: tiled floors, pastel furnishings, coral collages on the walls, and wooden statues of pelicans on every shelf that wasn’t lined with paperback thrillers. The air-conditioning was turned up to STUN.

I thought you smoked.

Gave it up, I said.

What the hell for?

It’s bad for you. So they say.

Bullshit, Thompson said. Never done me any harm.

Not everyone has your constitution, sir, I said, realizing I was sounding a kiss-ass, and minding, but knowing also that that was precisely what I was here to do.

Thompson lit his cigarette and settled back on the white leather sofa. Okay. I’m grateful for the wine, Bill. You did good. But what’s your point?

I wanted to talk to you about the decorative state of the resort, I said.

You telling me it looks like shit?

Not at all, I said calmly. Prior experience had forewarned me that Thompson conducted conversations the way some people deal with cockroaches. Compare it with facilities from the same era—Tradewinds, Pelican Sands, you name it—and it’s in great shape. Overall. But—

Let me save you some time, Thompson said. We’re not going to be redecorating this year. End of story. Anything else you wanted to discuss?

May I ask why?

Three reasons. Money, money, and money.

I hear you, and they’re all good reasons, but I’m going to lay it right out for you, sir. You got owner discontent. And it’s on the rise.

Who?

I can’t tell you, I said.

Thompson frowned, sending sun-and-cigarette cracks across his broad, leathery face. Thought you were just a Realtor, Bill. Didn’t realize that involved an oath of confidentiality. You a doctor on the side? Or a lawyer? I got a goddamned priest selling my condos now?

I smiled. No sir. Just a Realtor. But if I start blogging every conversation with my clients, pretty soon people will stop telling me anything, right?

He appeared to concede the point. I pressed on. "Folks care about their properties. It’s where they live, who they are. I respect that. I respect their privacy, too. Anyone tells me anything, I’m where it stops. I paused to let that point hit home—that I was a man who could keep his mouth shut in the interests of a greater good. But I will tell you the chatter is not just coming from people who are looking to sell. With those folks, they’re out of here already. Screw ’em, right? I’m talking about the families who are happy owning their corner of The Breakers, who want to stay a part of it."

You’re really not going to give up some names?

I hesitated again, this time to give the wily old fucker reason to suspect that, under exactly the right circumstances, I might spill a name or two.

No can do, I said. But you know the economic climate as well as I do, sir. Far better, uh, of course. It makes people twitchy. Everybody loves The Breakers. You built an amazing community here. Even the people I’m selling for, ninety percent wish they didn’t have to let their properties go. But they also have expectations. You let the feel-good factor drift, and . . . It’s a social network, old style. People sit around the pool and they talk. You need the core community to remain stable—and to believe it’s being listened to and valued. Otherwise it all starts to feel random, and then someone says, ‘Hey, that new place on Lido has got a bigger hot tub, and it’s just a short walk from St. Armands Circle . . . ,’ and people decide to vote with their feet. En masse.

Are you saying that—

We are not at that point. Not yet, sir, not by a long shot. But nobody wants that to happen, either.

What’s your angle, Bill?

Sir?

Why are you telling me this?

I went for broke. I want what you’ve got.

Thompson’s mouth opened, closed. He cocked his head on one side and stared at me. Say again?

What are you worth, sir, financially, if you don’t mind me asking?

I surely fucking do.

The skin on the back of my neck felt very hot, despite the frigid air. I respect that, sir, and I already know it’s in the tens of millions. Depending on how it’s accounted, and who’s asking.

One side of his mouth moved upward about a quarter of an inch. He looked like an alligator that was trying to decide whether to eat something right away, or if it might be worth watching its prey just a little longer, to see if it did something else funny.

I’m listening.

I don’t want to be manning a desk at Shore forever, I said. "Right now, I’m capital light. That means my focus is on assisting those who already have. Protecting their position and investments, getting them a little more on top. Sometimes a lot more. And that means The Breakers, most of all. The better you do

Reviews for Killer Move

[usuallee · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Excellent thriller. Marshall writes exceptionally well.

[imyril · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Bill Moore is an ambitious estate agent with a plan to go places - until he finds a card on his desk that says "MODIFIED". After an email he didn't send, an Amazon order he didn't place, and some photos he didn't take, everything he cares about unravels - and he finds himself the subject of a game played by the rich and powerful - who may not be the people he thinks they are. MMS delivers as usual with a clever set-up, smart prose, and those haunting insights into the human condition that set him apart. Having found The Intruders and Bad Things 'fine' but not entirely compelling, Killer Move is a return to form that left me wondering why I haven't read more MMS recently.

[rivkat_2 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

As Michael Marshall Smith, Marshall writes sf/horror I really enjoy. As Marshall, he writes thrillers whose implausibility lies more in serial killer conspiracy theory than in high technology or eldritch visitors; this leads the thrillers to present an especially grim view of human nature. This one involves a shallow everyman with ambitions to be More (more of what is not something that crosses his mind) who starts to find little things changed around him, with the message “modified.” This quickly escalates from pranks to something much worse. Marshall is always a sharp writer; I particularly liked the description of a Ben & Jerry’s as having “the air, as usual, of having recently withstood a concerted attack by forces loyal to some other ice cream manufacturer.” I’ve been to a few Ben & Jerry’s stores like that. As much as I like the writing, I wish he’d write more as Smith.

[adonisguilfoyle · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

The jury's still out on Michael Marshall (Smith). A British author who sets his novels in the States (usually alternate realities thereof), I loved One of Us, written under his sci-fi name, but seem to have stalled halfway through Only Forward, his first novel, and I'm not sure what to make of Killer Move either. Clever, but sometimes too clever, would seem to sum up Marshall Smith's style.Killer Move is a whacking great cynical warning for the modern world - a cautionary tale about being 'modified' by greed and ambition. Bill Moore would seem to have everything - a successful career with plans to go into business for himself, a happy marriage, a good living in the Florida Keys. He also comes across as rather obnoxious, but the reader is obviously supposed to identify with him - especially when the cracks start to appear in Bill's perfect life. Someone has stolen Bill's identity. At first, the clues are trivial and irritating - a book he didn't order, a joke he didn't send - but then Bill begins to realise that someone is playing a very dangerous game. Bill Moore is being 'modified', and his life is out of control - who can he trust to help him get back to who he used to be? The build-up is very deftly plotted, feeding on the paranoia of the technological age, but the climax, and the pantomime villains responsible for all the death and corruption, didn't quite work for me. Marshall's dystopian metaphor - 'You're not the cause, the be-all and end-all of anything. There's no house. There's no life. There's just you. A point and space in time' - is not only depressing, but stretched to breaking point by the end.A dramatic, fast-paced thriller which will have you checking your e-mails and Amazon account, but lacking the quirky flair of Michael Marshall Smith.

[mhanlon_19 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

This book started a little slow, especially for a Michael Marshall book, and seemed to take around 90-100 pages to find itself, but eventually did. And once it did it was a cracking read. Not as totally immersive as some of his others, but a great way to spend a bit of your time.

[mikedraper · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Every now and then an author creates a book that is truly unique and causes the reader to stop and consider what is being said.John Hunter is released from prison after serving sixteen years for a murder he didn't commit. He's had plenty of time to plan his revenge for the people who framed him.Bill Moore is a real estate agent in Florida. He's successful and loves his wife but wants more and has a plan to obtain his goal but he's behind his time table. One day he notices a paper on his desk with the word "MODIFIED" on it.He doesn't think anything about it but soon a series of things happen that changes his life. Something is placed on his computer and his wife becomes very upset with him. An appointment is missed and the client's secretary denies making an appointment. People are killed and he becomes a suspect when a man goes missing.Michael Marshall has written an intelligent novel that is a puzzle that the reader must solve. What is the connection between John Hunter, Bill Moore and the missing man?It takes a while before we find a connection between these people and the action moves at a breakneck pace that seduces the reader, and yet, nothing is as it seems.The author brings up good points about greed in society and the wealthy assuming that they won't be held accountable for their deeds.The dialogue is right on but only the two main characters are really developed. The plot is complicated and unpredictable however, it is still unimaginably addictive.

[twink_2 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Michael Marshall's latest book Killer Move opens with a newly released con named Hunter seeking payback for a crime he says he didn't commit.We then meet realtor Bill Moore, a man with a five year plan - increasing his condo sales numbers in the Florida keys, opening up his own realty office, rubbing shoulders with the movers and shakers in his corner of the world. Problem is - it's year six. But Bill is nothing if not upbeat. It will happen.. he just has to work a little harder at it.Small things start to happen - a card with nothing but a single word - Modified - is left on his desk. A book from Amazon that he can't remember ordering, a prime table at a restaurant he doesn't recall making a reservation for. Then it starts to escalate - he discovers compromising photos on his computer, conveniently stored in a folder labelled Modified. And suddenly that very simple word takes on ominous overtones. Because someone is playing a game with Bill's life....What a great premise - an everyday guy with no idea who or why someone would mess with him. Bill's desperate attempts to stop his life spiralling out of control are alternated with Hunter's steps to exact retaliation.Bill tells his story from a first person narrative, which I have to admit I found increasingly annoying in the first few chapters. It took quite a few chapters beyond the prologue for me to become invested in the book. Bill's thoughts on his father and his philosophy on selling were tiresome. The plot is inventive and plausible, but some of the 'moves' were a bit over the top. The ending was somewhat disappointing, referencing a previous book by Marshall as an explanation for what has gone on.That being said, I think Marshall has come up with a great idea. How much of our lives are controlled by passwords and online access? How secure are they? How much would it take someone to start games with our lives? A good read, but not great for me. Linwood Barclay does it better.

[celticlady53 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

This book starts out with a bang and does not let go. Little things start happening to Bill Moore, an upscale realtor in Florida, and he really does not pay attention at first. Then it starts affecting his personal life when his wife accuses him of being a peeping tom with his co-worker. There is proof on his computer but he didn't do it. From that point on the action just keeps on going. A very suspensful story about how your life can get turned around and changed if someone is out to "modify" it. This book is very well written and holds the reader captive as the mystery starts to unfold. Twists and turns in the story will keep you turning the pages until the end. Very creepy.As you can see by the authors bio, he is a very accomplished author, screenwriter etc. I highly recommend this book to any reader of the mystery/thriller genre.

[caitemaire · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

As the book open, John Hunter is being release from prison after 16 years, for a murder he did not commit.The murder of the woman he loved. And he has a plan. Those responsible are going to pay. Meanwhile, on the west coast of Florida, we meet Bill Moore. Bill is a pretty successful guy, with a good job as a realtor, a very nice house, a luxury car and a wife with whom he is deeply in love. But it is not quite enough for Bill, because he has a Plan, a five year plan that is now in it's sixth year. So Bill decides that perhaps he needs to step it up a bit. But it seems as if someone may have something else in mind for Bill. First, he gets a book, a rather pornographic 'art' book delivered from Amazon that he swears to his wife he never ordered. He thinks it is just a mistake. Then, even more upsetting, a racist joke is sent from his e-mail account to friends and business acquaintances. Again, at first, he doesn't take it seriously, thinking it is some sort of joke, some sort of misunderstanding. Like the card that turns up on his desk at work with just one word printed on it..."MODIFIED".Things quickly turn even nastier. He agrees to meet a potential client at his house in the evening to discuss the possible sale of the wealthy man's home. When the man does not turn up, Bill is sent of a wild goose chase to a bar some distance away by the man's assistant, but again the man does not show up. Bill goes home to find the next day that somehow some nude photos of a female co-worker were loaded on his computer, dated and timed when he told his wife he was waiting for that Mystery Client. It is even more unsettling when he see the name of the file the pictures are in..."MODIFIED".He has a techie guy that works for his company try to figure out, unsuccessfully, how someone is doing this. It seems someone, for some unknown reason, somehow has gained access to his passwords, his computer, all sorts of aspects of his life, his very identity.Bill has no idea who is behind it, what he can do to stop it, who he can even trust.When the Mystery Client turns up missing and appears to be the victim of foul play, Bill becomes the police's number one suspect and things are turning very, very bad indeed, quickly spinning out of control.Mr. Marshall is the author of several other books, none of which I have read, but I must say, I loved this one.For a significant part of the book, the reader is as confused as Bill Moore as to what is going on. There is the whole other story of John Hunter, the released convict, and the question of what this has to do with Bill's dilemma. But don't worry, they are related, and in good time it will all become clear. Well, maybe not totally clear but clear enough to keep the reader flipping those pages as the story tears along, veering this way and that, keeping us on edge, holding on, as the bodies starting to pile up, all leading to a totally surprising twist at the end. If you like your stories all black and white, everything all spelled out simply, this might not be to your taste. The reader has to pay attention, figure some things out. Good guys may be bad and some bad guys may be good, everything is certainly not what it seems and it will not all be neatly tied up with a bow at the end.But it is very good indeed..Bill starts out as not the most likable character. His relationship with his wife is his one saving grace but otherwise he is rather naive, very ambitious and really, a bit of an ass. But by the end of the story..a rather open ended ending...he is indeed a changed man. I think he becomes someone the reader will like, if only because we will identify with him and what happens to him. How easy would it be for our entire life, our very identity, to be turned on it's head in an instant. Way to easy it seems. I am sure many readers will we changing all their passwords on their computers by the time they reach the last page.If you enjoy a good thriller, with a healthy dose of conspiracy thrown in to get you thinking, Killer Move is a book I would certainly recommend!

[craso_3 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

John Hunter has just been paroled from prison. He was incarcerated for killing the woman he loved, a crime he did not commit. Bill Moore sells condos on the Florida Keys. He does everything he has been told will make him successful; he works out, he quit smoking, he gets daily affirmation emails, practices positive thinking and visualization. One day Bill finds a card on his desk at work with the word "modified" printed on it. Small inconveniences start occurring with the word "modified" attached and then things start getting serious. Bill becomes the main suspect in the police's investigation of a missing man.What do these men have in common? Why is John Hunter's story so important to answering Bill's questions?This novel is divided between Bill's first person narrative and a third personal omniscient look at John Hunter. It is obvious that Bill is unwittingly part of a game that has become deadly, but it takes a while to bring both men's stories together. I would have liked to have read more about John, but this is really Bill's story.This intelligent thriller kept me guessing until the very end. Even when I thought all the questions were answered there was one final twist. A well written engaging thriller I highly recommend.

[ironmike_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

By the time you get to page 82 in Killer Move, you will likely already have run to your computer to change all your important passwords. If you have been reading the book while on a commuter train you will be praying that you make it home before it is too late to change your passwords and your life is ruined. Killer Move will make you paranoid. And, like they say, just because you're paranoid doesn't mean everyone isn't out to get you. John Hunter and Bill Moore have never met, but they each fall prey to the same insidious cabal... a group of people that gets their kicks by destroying other people's lives. Killer Move follows the story of each of these two men as they separately deal with this sinister cabal. Moore and Hunter meet briefly toward the end of the book under circumstances in which neither trusts the other, but each of them learns something from the other to help him in his fight against their common enemy. Still not trusting each other, they split paths again, each resolving to put an end to the madness one way or another. The writing is riveting and chilling. It is not a book for the faint of heart. There are gruesome murders. While we are spared descriptions of the actual brutish criminal acts as they transpire, the descriptions of the bodies in the aftermath of the crimes are a bit disturbing. But then, in the midst of this horror there are tender recollections of love and romance, in which MacDonald's holds a special place. Can you imagine a candle-lit table for two at MacDonald's? Actually, it is quite nice and memorable. And there are lovely recollections of a young man and woman walking along a beach. Quite nice, but they don't last long before the world again starts falling apart around our protagonists. As I prepared to write this review I kept thinking "5 Stars, 5 Stars." But there was a period of time in the middle of the book where I felt that the narrative had lost its tension. I began to doubt that the author could tie all the wild happenings together and make sense of it all. (He does.) But for a while there, I had the feeling that Killer Move was a replay of an old Twilight Zone episode in which a bunch of people are trapped in a space enclosed by a high wall and they can't get out. And at the end of the episode the people turn out to have been toys in a child's toy box. Thankfully, the book doesn't end this way, but my interest had begun to wane. Late in the book Bill Moore, and later John Hunter, each meet with two members of the evil cabal. These people reveal secrets about the cabal to Moore and Hunter without putting up much of a fuss...except in the case of Hunter who had become a bit too pro-active for his own good. Better would have been (as they say in chess books) if the protagonists had discovered these secrets on their own. But these are minor faults. I highly recommend Michael Marshall's "Killer Move," although the title doesn't really fit the book...(another minor fault,) and although I disagree with Chamfort's maxim cited in the beginning of the book (very roughly translated as "being philosophical is often a miserable way to spend your life...act; do stuff; don't think too much...don't ponder the meaning of your own existence.") myself much preferring Socrates' opposing view that "the unexamined life is not worth living"...(another minor fault.)